Editor's Note: Because of sheer volume, Street could not publish every shoutout received. However, let it be known that by popular demand, Wharton douchebags, blonde nursing students and people with abrasive voices should stop talking in classes. Also, we are all very horny.
To the guy who wrote "I masturbated here during finals week 2004" in the bathroom stall at Van Pelt: why?
To the girl who compulsively twirls her hair in English 65: stop it. You're going to poke somebody's eye out.
To Penn students: I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm kind of a big deal. I own many leather-bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.
To the editor emeritus of Street: you're so vain, I'll bet you think this shoutout is about you.
To hipsters: the Arcade Fire is over. Fucking posers.
To the girl who is a pretentious, Chanel-wearing, menthol-smoking, used to be beat in high school but is hot at Penn: fuck my mouth.
To Quack: sociology is not a real major, you lazy fuck.
To Moses: you're the coolest biblical figure since Swiss cheese.
To the anal intruder on the freshman boy's crew team: thank you for sticking your full hand up my asshole while we were making out. I really enjoyed bleeding and not being able to shit for two days because of you, you motherfucker. And by the way, I know you tried to fuck me when you thought I was sleeping. I was awake and that was my arm, not my vagina, dumbass.
To Philly: I hate all of you. Love, God.
To the boy I made all of the "mistakes" with last semester: wanna fuck (up) one more time before you graduate?
To Max Apple: for $10, I will teach you how to type.
To freshman boys: the facebook has not replaced cell phones as an acceptable means of communication, unless you're ugly, which you are, and I'm not.
To all the JAPs at Penn: thank you for providing me with four years of constant amusement slash disgust. I never knew a Burberry scarf could be worn in so many ways. I'm sure one of you could turn it into a noose...
To Theta rejects: if you eat something next time, maybe they'll remember you.
To my roommates: peel yourselves away from Fox News for one second and refill the fucking Brita.
To the blond girl who works at the DP: I hope I can sell you my column inches.
To the dead mouse on my kitchen floor: ew.
To the Styrofoam plate section of Fresh Grocer: you're not edible. Bring back the bin candy.
To the neighbors mooching wireless off me: your iTunes suck.
To the girl who thought I was #18: I'm not, but thanks for the blowjob.
To the girl who fell in front of me on Locust Walk: I didn't have a cough, I actually was laughing at you.
To the Australian boy in my photo class: I had a sex dream about you and woke up with my shirt off. Was it good for you?
To the two lesbians who were fooling around on my bed thinking that I was asleep on the floor: I was awake.
To the super-Jew sitting next to me in Hebrew: keep farting, I've come to like the smell.
To my roommate who judges me for smoking pot: shut the fuck up.
To my ambiguously gay professor and his dipshit TA: you make it painfully clear that you are fucking each other up the poopshoot. Please, never again tell your students that you are injecting your DNA into the TA, regardless if it was a rhetorical question posed for educational purposes. If you must proceed with your all-too-apparent anal shenanigans in front of an entire class, then do it in Vermont. Or Hawaii.
To Peggy Curchack and Sharon Fleshman: ladies, on this Valentine's day, get on your knees, flood my inbox, and show me the best job you have to offer.
To the seniors in St. A's: a comb over and a credit card don't make you attractive.
To the hot girl who likes to wear jeans with holes in the crotch: you know you want my big black corn on the cob, don't lie.
To BMOC: I fantasize for you to be the BMO me.
To Strikes: you suck.
To all of the hot Jewish girls: I want you inside me.
To Matt Klapper: how do you remember everyone's name? It's flashcards, isn't it? Flashcards, I knew it.
To the zit-faced douchebags in suits clustered around Hunstsman comparing interviews: you may make six figures, but you still won't be able to please a woman. Love, The College.
To all the diseasebags who relentlessly insist on coughing up lung particles on me in class: cover your goddamn mouths. Use a Kleenex. And get some cootie shots.
To the "boys" crew team: take that oar out of your coxswain's ass!
To my beauteous architecture TA from Deutschland, with your chiseled wangenknochen and huge wortschatz: I've always wanted to sleep with a TA and only have three months left to do it. Werden sie geschlechtsverkehr mit mir haben? In the Fine Arts Library stacks, A.E.?
To the boy I hooked up with last weekend when I wasn't planning on getting any: why didn't you want to spoon afterward? Jerk.
To closeted Phi Delts: have the confidence to wear something other than a polo shirt and admit that you like anal sex. The gay boys here love you. Thanks for the action.
To the hot Brit and hot Latino who work out together in Pottruck: I want you both. Maybe at the same time. Ask me.
To my dying fish: eat the F@#!ing pellets, mustapha!
To the Goldman Sachs interviewer: can I blow my load on your face?
To the girl in ENVS407: Stop wearing the same Jewish hoodie and those sweatpants under your skirt every day. What is that? It looks like the Salvation Army puked on you.
To the girl on Facebook who likes the Garden State soundtrack: I like it too. Call me.
To Wawa and Houston Hall: thank you for your liberal security measures. I haven't paid for food in three semesters, and can now afford my habit.
To the fat girl who sits in front of me in Econometrics: you're a fat loser who is fat ... and a loser.
To the fucking hot boy with Peter Gallagher eyebrows: why are you so fucking hot?
To that guy in my German class who I always thought was weird for wearing a hat: yesterday I saw you hatless. Keep that hat on.
To the girl who crashes our parties, drinks all our alcohol and sports sparkly shoes: your roots are showing.
To whoever lives above me in HRN: You keep my entire room up all night with your incessant fucking. Consider slow passionate sex for a change, or, hell, just do it on the floor.
To myself: stop masturbating all the time. It's interfering with your social life.
To the girl who fucked my brother on the lawn chair: I want a new lawn chair you dumb whore.
To the girls upstairs at 213: this is the sound a cow makes -- moo. This is the sound a male stripper makes -- woohoo.
To the New Number One delivery guy: what's a girl have to do to get some free dumplings around here?
To Al Filreis: you're every babysitter's fantasy.
To Mel Brooks: thanks for Spaceballs.
To that hot Swedish girl who likes champagne, glamour, sex and respect: you touch my tra la la. My ding ding dong.
To the obese, balding, nerdy looking guy who is always at his computer when I walk by the window of DRL, even if it's 8 p.m.: if you don't cure cancer or successfully develop string theory or something, you've wasted your life.
To MM: you are a W. A very DDW.
To the football player who pantsed me in front of our whole hall during NSO: do you remember in Billy Madison when that crazy guy has Billy on a death list, but then Billy calls him to apologize for being an asshole and the crazy guy crosses Billy off of his death list? I love that movie, don't you?
To the G-Spot: Where are you?
To Wham!: Wake me up before you go-go.
To the Geology department: you rock.
